Rude Awakenings of a Jane Austen Addict (7 page)

“Good morning, darling, I’ve got your pills,” she says, waving a paper bag in my direction. “Did you sleep well?” Her toothy smile vanishes as she regards Wes and me on the bed. I pull the bedclothes up around my neck and am instantly vexed with myself. Who is Paula, with her bare arms and legs and scarlet lips that match her dress, to pass judgment upon me? Or is Wes indeed a member of the serving class, as I had first suspected, and is this the source of her disapprobation?

Impossible. Despite his coarse clothing, from what I have observed, he has most certainly comported himself as an equal with the ladies in every possible way, even attempting to assert his dominance whenever he could.

“Wes,” Paula says, “don’t you have a website to optimize or something?”

“Like you even know what you’re talking about.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Give me a break, Paula. You know Courtney asked me to stay.”

I asked Wes to stay here? Heaven only knows what else I might have said under the sway of that evil pill. My face is burning.

Paula flashes me a conciliatory smile, then turns to Wes with a softened tone. “Would you mind terribly if Anna and I took over for a while?” And turning to me, “If you think you’re up to it, it’s a typical L.A. blue sky and not too hot yet, so Anna and I would like to take you to breakfast.”

I glance over at Wes, who is watching me with what looks like a feeble attempt to affect unconcern at my answer.

Paula turns to Wes. “There are some things we need to discuss—just us girls.” The tightness returns to her tone. “Do I need to spell it out?”

Wes is looking at me instead of Paula. “If that’s what Courtney wants, I’ll leave you to it.”

“Yes,” I say, “I suppose I had better. . . .”

“Call me later if you need anything,” Wes says, placing a card on top of the bookcase. He gives me a wry grin. “Just in case you’ve wiped out all traces of my contact info.” Paula gives him an icy look and Anna raises an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah, I folded your laundry; it’s still in the living room.” A quick wave and he is gone.

Within fifteen minutes I am washed—oh heavenly water and soap and thick downy towels—and dressed, with the help of Paula and Anna, who assist me in choosing my ensemble and fastening myself into the various garments. Today this lovely, shapely body is clad in loose white trousers and a long chemise of sheer white with little opaque spots, and underneath a surprisingly comfortable yet form-molded sleeveless bodice in a pale pink.

“One thing that knock on the head did for you is make you appreciate your beauty,” Anna says. “I don’t think I have ever seen you get dressed without rattling off a laundry list of complaints.”

“A pity, that.” It seems the owner of this body has little appreciation for it. Curiously I have not, until this moment, thought of who Courtney Stone actually might be. Or where she might be, if she has vacated this body and left it for me. If my soul has transmigrated to her body, then has her soul transmigrated to mine? Or—

“Dear Lord.” I cannot believe what I am seeing in the bookcase in front of me: a book lying on its side,
Pride and Prejudice
by Jane Austen. And shelved neatly behind it,
Sense and Sensibility
by Jane Austen.
Emma
by Jane Austen . . .

“Sweetie?”

“Are you okay?”

“I—yes, I am perfectly well. Would you be so kind as to allow me a few minutes? I assure you I am well.”

Paula and Anna exchange glances, Anna shrugs. “Sure, darling,” Paula says. “We’ll be right out here.”

I close the door behind them and remove
Pride and Prejudice
from the bookcase, which is packed with books, so much so that they are piled every which way and are two deep in places. This must be—is it—there cannot be two books with that title—yet I have never known the name of the author, who is simply referred to on the title page of my copy as “the author of ‘Sense and Sensibility. ’ ” I turn to the first page:
It is a truth universally acknowledged
. . . yes, it is indeed the same book. And in this bookcase are not only
Pride and Prejudice
and
Sense and Sensibility,
the only two novels I have ever known to have been written by this author, this Miss Austen, but there is a third,
Emma
. And—could it be—a fourth, and a fifth, and a sixth novel,
Mansfield Park, Northanger Abbey, Persuasion
. All by Jane Austen. Six novels in all! What an embarrassment of riches!

I turn to the title pages of the other four novels—they were published after 1813, which is why I do not know of them. . . .

“Courtney?”

“A moment, please.” I cannot wait to return here and read every one of these books—these curious, future-world things that are complete in a single volume and bound in paper instead of boards or leather, but nonetheless precious treasures.

Each of us has the power to create heaven or hell, right here, right now
. I do not know how I have come to be in this time, in this place, in this body. But I do know that any place where there are six novels by the author of
Pride and Prejudice
must be a very special sort of heaven.

Eight

N
ow that I am able to keep my seat in Paula’s car without hav ing to grip anyone’s arm, I am at leisure to observe the world passing by at an astonishing pace. There are men, women, and children of a variety of complexions going about their business, a few walking in and out of shops, most riding in cars, laughing, frowning, talking, silent—they are brown and white and black, they are Asian and European and even African, all apparently in a state of perfect freedom and equanimity. I thought this must be so when I saw a couple of African ladies at Dr. Menziger’s establishment, but now I know that slavery itself, and not just the trade, is finally at an end. This is a most delightful aspect to the world in which I find myself.

Whenever I manage to tear my eyes from the wonders of the streets, I observe Paula closely, for I would like to understand how she drives. All I can glean from her movements is that driving involves depressing something on the floor with her foot as well as maneuvering a wheel with her hands.

“Why can’t they synchronize these stupid lights?” she says as she brings the car to a sudden stop at a crossroads, and it is then that I notice a bank of circular lights suspended over the road and alternating red, green, and yellow. As with the other lights of this world, I cannot make out the source of the illumination.

Another curiosity are the signs. They are everywhere. Big signs. Enormous signs. One promising relief for aching feet. Another the size of a workingman’s cottage and featuring a scantily clad woman, twenty feet tall, looking inside a large white illuminated box. Some of the printed messages are taller than a person. And mostly unintelligible. “Senior Living.” “Hotter Than Hot.” “More Minutes.” “Half the Carbs.”

Paula brings her car to a final stop, and we alight before a bustling establishment crowded with people dining alfresco and many more at tables inside.

It appears to be a public breakfast, for ladies as well as gentlemen are being served, yet there is no shrubbery or promenade or anything resembling a pleasure garden. Curious indeed—a public breakfast taking place in an establishment which appears to exist expressly for the purpose of providing its guests with food and drink. The platters of food being carried from the kitchen by a battalion of white-aproned waiters, male and female, tell me that this is no mere tea shop.

Nor does it appear to be a chophouse, for it has not the filth of the places my brother frequents, the horrors of which he delights in retailing to his fastidious sister. No gravy stains or blotches of grease on the spotless white tablecloths, no litter of bones on the floor. It is most certainly not an inn or a hotel, for the single story seems wholly occupied by tables and chairs. And it is far grander than I imagine any tavern would be.

Most remarkable is that there are as many ladies dining as there are gentlemen, and no chophouse, let alone a tavern, would serve a lady.

A waiter appears at our table. “Ready to order?” he says, and I realize I have not even looked at the bill of fare, which Anna and Paula are perusing, and which is the length of an epic poem. The cover refers to the establishment as a “restaurant,” in the manner of the French.

“Ooh, that looks good,” says Anna as another waiter rushes by carrying an armload of enormous, steaming platters to a neighboring table.

She and Paula choose their meals, and when Paula suggests I have what she’s having, I agree, as the sheer number of choices is overwhelming. Indeed, the variety of dishes listed within these pages exceeds what I imagine even the prince regent’s cooks, let alone a mere genteel eating-house, would be capable of producing for the most festive occasion.

“So,” says Anna, the waiter having been dispatched, “what’s the deal with you and Wes?”

“I couldn’t believe you asked him to stay with you instead of us, that you called him from the hospital instead of us,” says Paula. “Who watched over you, took you out, wiped your tears, held your head while you puked up your guts, listened to you no matter how late it was and whether or not I was in the middle of production or whether or not Anna had to be at a meeting at some ungodly hour?”

She points at her chest. “We did. And who lied to cover for Frank when he was sneaking around with Miss Arsenic-in-your-wedding-cake? Wes, that’s who. Wes, who’s all I’m-so-sorry-Courtney and I-didn’t-mean-to-hurt-anyone and all that bullshit.”

I look from Paula to Anna and back, quite at a loss. “Forgive me, ladies, but I have not the honor of understanding you.”

“The only thing I could get out of Suzanne about your case,” says Paula, “is that memory loss and confusion are not uncommon with concussion. She also said it would likely pass. But you really don’t remember what happened with Wes?”

“Or Frank?” adds Anna.

“I must confess I do not,” I say, noting the shocked looks they exchange with one another and seeing the wisdom of Wes’s admonition that I refrain from insisting I am not, in fact, who they believe me to be.

Paula reaches for one of the three basins of coffee with foamy milk which the waiter has just deposited before us. “But you remember who they are, right?”

“Indeed I do not.”

“And what about me? Do you really not remember me?” says Paula, enormous coffee cup poised at her scarlet lips.

“Or me?” Anna’s eyes are eager, hopeful.

I muster what I hope looks like an encouraging smile. “I am sure it will all come back very soon.”

“Jesus,” says Paula, and, calling out to a waiter, “Could I have a mimosa over here?

“Luckily,” she adds, reaching into a large, square black bag with shiny white flowers and pulling out a flat rectangular object like the one Wes tried to show me how to use, “I came armed with visual aids.”

She lays the rectangle on the table and taps its flat, hard surface, sometimes moving her pointing and middle finger across it as if smoothing it out. Small pictures, as colorful and lifelike as the one atop the cabinet in Dr. Menziger’s room, appear on the surface for a fleeting moment, instantly replaced by another, and another, and yet another.

“Here it is.” She slides the rectangle before me.

I am looking at a picture of the blond woman I have become, standing beside a man who is two heads taller than she and has his arm round her, quite an unseemly display of affection for a portrait. He has a playful grin and dark hair, nearly black, which falls over his forehead and tumbles over the open collar of his shirt. Does no gentleman wear a coat or neckcloth in this world? As a matter of fact, not a single gentleman in this establishment is wearing a coat. Unless—

Unless they are none of them gentlemen. Could it be that I have taken on not only a new body, but also a new rank, one lower than that of a gentleman’s daughter? That could account for the unladylike dress and painted lips of the two ladies, unless they are—no, unthinkable—though I must venture to gain some intelligence of their families, their pursuits, their situation in life. And what of Wes? What could account for the air and manner and dress of Wes and Paula and Anna, for their ill-bred familiarity towards me and one another, for the brazen manners of the ladies and gentlemen all around me—if ladies and gentlemen they be?

Good lord. What have I become?

A hypocrite. Nothing less. I, who proclaimed to James that “rank and fortune don’t signify,” and here I am lamenting my fall from the polite world. Although Paula must be a woman of substance in order to keep her own carriage—or car. And while there is no evidence of a servant in the blond woman’s rooms, no one expected her/me to have anything to do with the laundry—Wes did say he folded it, did he not? And the ladies did help me dress.

There it is. They must be my servants after all. And Paula is some sort of coachman—coachwoman. No. Impossible. There is not the smallest degree of deference in their manner towards me. Dictating to me, addressing me by my/her Christian name. In fact—

“Courtney!”

“Don’t shout at her,” Anna says.

“Forgive me,” I say, aware again of my surroundings and wondering how a tall fluted glass filled with fizzing, bright yellow liquid has come to be in front of me on the table. Paula is engaged in finishing what looks like the same type of drink.

She dabs at her lips with a starched white napkin. “You completely disappeared into yourself. Are you okay? Is it the photo?”

“That?” I say, seeing that she is looking at the picture in the rectangle. “Not at all.”

“So you don’t recognize him,” Anna says. “I think that’s a blessing.”

“Let me enlighten you,” says Paula, pointing at the black-haired gentleman in the picture next to the likeness of Courtney, or should I say me. The notion is quite diverting, and I find myself struggling to keep my countenance.

“That,” Paula continues, “is Frank. You were engaged to him. Two months before the wedding, you walked in on Frank cozying up to another woman. The woman who was designing your wedding cake,” she says, raising an eyebrow, “as if infidelity weren’t bad enough. Wes knew about it, but instead of telling you the truth, he agreed to lie for Frank. And Wes was supposed to be your closest male friend. Trouble is, he’s been friends with Frank since high school and clearly made a choice between the two of you when push came to shove.”